Diana stood in the old oak porch, riding-whip in hand, and the folds of her voluminous gown over her arm. Miss Betty stood beside her, surveying her with secret pride.
Diana’s eyes seemed darker than ever, she thought, and the mouth more tragic. She knew that the girl was, to use her own expression, “moping quite prodigiously for that Mr. Carr.” Not all that she could do to entertain Diana entirely chased away the haunting sadness in her face; for a time she would be gay, but afterwards the laughter died away and she was silent. Many times had Miss Betty shaken her fist at the absent John.
Presently Diana gave a tiny sigh, and looked down at her aunt, smiling.
“You would be surprised how excellently well Harper manages the horses,” she said. “He is quite a godsend. So much nicer than that stupid William.”
“Indeed, yes,” agreed Miss Betty. “Only think, my dear, he was groom to Sir Hugh Grandison—I saw the letter Sir Hugh writ your Papa—a remarkable elegant epistle, I assure you, my love.”
Diana nodded and watched the new groom ride up, leading her mount. He jumped down, and, touching his hat, stood awaiting his mistress’s pleasure.
Diana went up to the cob, patting his glossy neck.
“We are going towards Ashley to-day, aunt,” she said. “I am so anxious to find some berries, and Harper tells me they grow in profusion not far from here.”
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